


My Beautiful Boy

by AlwaysJohn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Apologies, Early days in their togetherness, I have brain cramps all over the place, M/M, Mix and match plots, My Own LIttle Universe, Not much plot, Not my usual ending, Protective John, Sherlock is just Sherlock and a bit of a brat, Sigh...., When caring was still new for Sherlock, a tiny bit of angst, pre-Moriarty, unresolved case fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-17
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-06-28 20:53:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15714882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlwaysJohn/pseuds/AlwaysJohn
Summary: “We’re the only ones here, John. What could go wrong?”





	My Beautiful Boy

“We’re the only ones here, John. What could go wrong?”

Everything.

** 

 

John offered several good reasons for staying together, and he knew better than to take his eyes off his impetuous partner, but when he’d turned his attention to texting Greg begging backup, Sherlock left him behind. 

If past behaviour was the best indicator of future behaviour, well, it wasn’t the first time, nor would it be the last that he’d be left behind. Sherlock was Sherlock. The work was THE WORK.

John shook his head. Apparently, he reasoned, Sherlock’s genius brain didn’t grasp the together-or-not-at-all reminder. 

John followed, as he was accustomed, slipping through the hardly attached door and into the shadows, realising at once that Sherlock had made a grave miscalculation and walked into another dangerous situation. 

Moving swiftly and silently, John crouched behind abandoned equipment in the dilapidated, long unused warehouse from where he could observe but remain unseen. With no weapon, and only the element of surprise on his side, John was sorely outnumbered by the five men hurriedly packing away whatever it was they’d stored. Drugs, probably. 

Heart in his throat, John surveyed the area from his vantage point. Where was Sherlock? 

There. At the outer circle of the overhead lighting, Sherlock lay on his side, arms and ankles zip tied, a dirty rag between his teeth so he couldn’t speak. Blindfolded, so, obviously, still alive.

John kept to his hiding place, waiting for his moment to move in. There was no time to wait for Lestrade. It was up to him now.

“That’s it. Everything’s ready. Somebody get the van.”

“What’ll we do with him?”

John watched as the man who seemed to be in charge stood over Sherlock. 

“There’s a fridge over there,” the man ordered, gesturing toward the outside wall. “Put him inside. By the time anybody finds him, it will be too late.”

John backed off, retracing his steps toward the outside wall. Tucking himself among the damaged restaurant equipment gave him a clear view to watch two of the men drag Sherlock away as though he belonged in the bin. The thump of the fridge door and returning footsteps were the only sounds John heard. 

The wait for the men to gather around the cargo van was the longest five minutes of his life. He was grateful for the noise they were making which effectively masked his footsteps as he ran toward his imprisoned detective.

A box cutter lying abandoned on a broken conveyor caught his eye. He scooped it up without breaking stride. Coincidence? It wasn’t the time to smirk, but he nodded in acknowledgement.

The men were too busy loading and laughing to pay any attention to him as he bolted across the last few feet of open space. The door to the fridge opened easily, too easily. Too silently. Fear rose in his chest when the hair at his nape stood to attention. A glance over his shoulder confirmed he was not about to be bludgeoned.

John swung the door wide. Dropping to his knees, he immediately placed his finger across Sherlock’s lips, leaning in to whisper against his ear.

“All right?” 

Sherlock startled, nodding his head vigourously, reaching out to curl his fingers into the front of his jacket.

Quickly pulling off the blindfold and gag, John sliced the zip ties and urged Sherlock to his feet. The detective stumbled a bit, his hand gripping John’s shoulder for support. 

John patted Sherlock’s hand, not unaware of the slight wobbling of his detective’s lip when he tried to smile. As much as he wanted to comfort, there was no time to linger. He suspected a bit of shock, which he knew Sherlock would denounce once they were safe.

Using hand gestures to tell Sherlock to stay low as they followed the wall, John pulled him along with a hand at his elbow, keeping him beside rather than behind him. 

With the door in sight, John picked up the pace as much as he dared. 

“Hey!”

When a gunshot barely missed them and shattered a window just above their heads, John had no choice but to push Sherlock through the door. Landing in a tangle of arms and legs, John rolled to his feet and hoisted Sherlock upright, half dragging him behind a copse of trees just wide enough to protect them from view. 

“John?”

John shook his head, pressing his finger to Sherlock’s lips once again. When Sherlock rested his head against his back, he knew there was something not just right, but he kept his attention on the door. 

Assuming the man was the shooter, there was nothing to do but wait and hope he wouldn’t search for them. After a quick visual search from the door, the man gave up, pulled back and disappeared.

“Now, Sherlock. We have to go now.”

When Sherlock turned to face him, the disconnect in his eyes was painfully apparent. John squeezed his hand as he pressed a kiss to the edge of his mouth, then whispered against his ear.

“Run, Sherlock. Now.”

They ran side by side until they couldn’t run anymore and found themselves right where they needed to be. For the first time in their time together, there was not a cab in sight, but there was a bus and they were standing at a bus stop. 

“No, John, I’d rather walk.”

“No, Sherlock, we are taking the bus. We need to stay out of sight just in case.”

“They don’t take notes and I don’t have an Oyster card.”

“Yes, you do,” John informed him, as he pulled out his wallet.

“But I don’t want an Oyster card, John. You know I detest public transportation.”

John stared at him for a long moment. 

“What?”

“Did you hit your head or are you just having a strop?”

The glare that was Sherlock’s alone did little to ease John’s mind. Anticipating his probable next move, John held his elbow, and when the bus stopped, pushed his recalcitrant companion aboard so he could touch both Oyster cards while keeping a weather eye on him. He relaxed a bit when Sherlock dropped into one of the two nearest empty seats.

John slid in next to him pressing his arm and hip tight against Sherlock’s corresponding body bits. 

“Breathe.”

“I am.”

“We’ll be home soon.”

“Not soon enough.”

“Berk.”

Sherlock stiffened, turning his face toward the window.

“Shut up, John.”

John curled his fingers over Sherlock’s hand where it lay on the seat between them. His detective huffed out a sigh, eventually turning his hand over to lace their fingers together. 

John leaned close to whisper in his ear.

“My numpty.”

“Idiot,” Sherlock mumbled under his breath.

“Yep, that would be me.”

“Hm.”

**

Mrs. Hudson was out when they returned to Baker Street. John was relieved to see the note pinned to their door which informed them she was off with Mrs. Turner until late the next day.

John sent off a text to Lestrade to say they’d arrived home unscathed, that they would see him soon, then turned off both phones. 

For a long moment Sherlock stood in the middle of the sitting room, his eyes closed, but, John was certain, his thought whirling in that curly head.

“Are you going to take off your coat, Sherlock?”

Drawn out of his reverie, Sherlock hung his coat on the peg next to John’s and dropped into his chair, staring at the carpet.  
Toeing out of his shoes, John padded around behind him.

“All right?” he asked, resting his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders and bending down to kiss the top of his head.

“Hm.”

“Don’t go anywhere, I’ll be back for you in a few minutes.”

“Stupid,” Sherlock muttered under his breath.

John stopped at the fridge to affectionately gaze at the man who was his whole world and had no clue it was so. Unable to discern the expression on Sherlock’s face, he wasn’t at all certain which of them was the intended target of the ‘stupid.’ Leaving it hanging in the air rather than raise an alarm, John slipped into the loo and closed the door behind him.

Using the ensuite door, John gathered clean clothes for both of them and returned to the bath just as the water in the tub reached the maximum comfort level for two.

Undressing to just his pants, John returned to where Sherlock was still ensconced in his chair. With his hands gripping the arms of the chair, he pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s nose. 

“Hello, my lovely.”

“John.” Sherlock growled his name, feathering his fingers from the hollow of his throat, over his sternum to the band of his pants.

John shivered at his touch. “Come with me.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m asking you. Nicely and sweetly. Please?”

Sherlock sighed and gave in. 

John cheered, silently.

“Very well.”

**

Slotted in behind, John wrapped one arm round Sherlock’s waist, and the other across his chest to ease him back enough to rest his curly head against his shoulder.

“Bubbles, John. Really?”

“Only the best for my genius.”

“Obviously.”

“Ah, it’s as modest as you get, so I’ll take it.”

“Yes.”

John giggled, which made Sherlock laugh in that deep baritone he loved so much.

“John.”

“Shh. Just enjoy the moment, Sherlock.”

**

Once out of the tub, towelled dry and dressed in their sleep clothes even though it was just mid-afternoon, Sherlock wandered his way to the sofa to peruse the daily news while John pottered in the kitchen for a bit and shortly thereafter brought a tray of healthy nibbles with Sherlock’s favoured Earl Grey.

Sitting shoulder to shoulder, they fed each other, communicating not with words, but with kisses and tender touches that slowly evolved into so much more.

**

Long after they’d awakened from their deep, post-lovemaking sleep, they remained wrapped round each other, just content to be.

Finally, Sherlock pulled back to look at him. John held his gaze, not at all uncomfortable with the familiar intense scrutiny that made his heart skip every time he was captured within it. 

Touching his finger to Sherlock’s lips, he followed with a tiny kiss to the corner of his mouth. 

“Hello, my beautiful boy.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, suspicious, but there was a touch of humour lurking in those changeling eyes.

“That’s not what you called me on that dispicable bus.”

“That was then, after you’d gone off without me, got yourself trussed like a chicken. This is now. You’re here, with me, safe and reasonably unscathed. And I love you.”

Sherlock sighed long and weary, snuggling into John’s neck. “I am sorry, John. It was not my intention to cause you to worry.”

“I know. You were just being you. And sometimes the you that makes you who you are, doesn’t think it through. I think I overcompensated on all those yous. Apologies.” John kissed Sherlock’s forehead where his head lay against his shoulder. “You can’t make me not love you. You do know that, yes?”

“I do know that, John. I never thought that I would love anyone, let alone John Watson, and I never thought that the extraordinary John Watson would love me in return.”

“It’s all fine, Sherlock. Just don’t be dead and leave me alone.”


End file.
